


The Ticking Clock

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch has amnesia after an undercover job gone bad, and Starsky has to find a way to jog his memory before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ticking Clock

Written: 2004

FIrst published in "A Small Circle of Friends #11" (2005)

Based on the (New) Airwolf episode, “The Key”

****

10:53 a.m.

            After glancing at his watch for the fourth time in the last two minutes, David Starsky finally gave in and undid the clasp, laying the watch on the dashboard where he could see it. At least it was something to look at; there certainly wasn't much to see on the small residential street where he'd been parked since before six that morning. Even the small, green-shuttered two-story that was the reason for his being there was around the corner, just out of sight.

            10:54.

            Sometimes, Starsky drove or took a walk around the block, watching the house without appearing to. Several times he thought he'd caught a glimpse of a blond head passing one of the few windows in which the shades weren't drawn, and his heart would speed up in the usual mix of anxiety and adrenaline that always accompanied his partner going undercover. But considering the resident of the house they were most interested in was also a slender Nordic blond, hope was dim for the sighting being the one profile Starsky cared to see. No, their only contact would be, as it had been the last two days, through the regular radio checks.

            10:55.

            Only five minutes to go.

            Starsky shifted slightly in the driver's seat. In deference to Hutch's inexorable argument that the red-and-white Torino might as well be a black-and-white for all its subtlety, Starsky had abandoned his beloved car for this stakeout. There was some grudging truth to the matter; what they could get away with in the bustle of the city was a lot harder to pass off in a quiet suburban neighborhood. Already, Starsky had had to duck several times to avoid the curious gazes of the neighbors and one particularly persistent dog-walker. But among the few assets of his partner's crumbling Ford was that people rarely gave it a second look. It was one of the two reasons Starsky had chosen that car to take the place of his shiny new baby.

            10:56.

            Only four minutes. Of course, that was assuming Hutch would be able to get away to call him. His recent addition to the small group in the house would naturally cause him to be regarded with more suspicion than the rest, and Starsky knew well moments of privacy would be few and far between. But Hutch was creative, or at the very least could always beg a bathroom break. No, he'd call in, punctual as usual.

            He knew Starsky's stomach would be churning if he was late.

            10:57.

            _"Zebra-3, come in, please."_

            Starsky made a face and grabbed the mike. "This is Zebra-3."

            _"Hold for Captain Dobey."_ There was a crackle of static, then his boss's voice, thick with tension. _"Starsky, has he called in yet?"_

"Not yet, Cap'n – couple more minutes. You got a message for him?"

            _"We got another letter from DiGonia. He's still saying the ten bombs he's hidden around the city will go off in seventy hours if the Governor doesn't order all logging stopped in the state, but now he's added that all the bombs are in public places – hospitals, airports, high-rises."_

10:58.

            "High casualties, terrific. Nice guy," Starsky said darkly.

            _"Tell Hutch we're running out of time. We've already started checking high-risk possible locations of the bombs, but if he doesn't come up with something by tomorrow, the governor's considering temporarily giving in to DiGonia's demands until we can find the bombs and disarm them, or prove they don't exist."_

"Yeah, and open the door to any other nutcase who wants something and isn't worried about killin' people to get it."

            _"This isn't just some 'nutcase,' Starsky."_ Dobey's voice was rising. _"With his engineering background, he–"_

10:59.

            "Gotta go, Cap'n. I'll give Hutch your love." With a barely amused smile, Starsky hung up the mike and picked up the walkie-talkie off the seat next to him.

            DiGonia would have been bad enough: a mad bomber with twenty years of engineering experience. But then the underworld had gotten involved in the form of an especially ruthless "businessman" by the name of Simon Ogrosky, funding DiGonia and setting up this base for him, and suddenly the possibility of ten deadly bombs scattered around the city was looking very plausible. Perhaps they should have been thankful for Ogrosky's involvement, as Hutch could never have gotten close to DiGonia without it, even with a recommendation from the Durniak criminal empire back east. They might not have even found DiGonia without it until it was too late, even if the man had been the kind who might have broken under questioning, which wasn't likely. But if Hutch didn't find out something from the reclusive bomber soon–

            The walkie-talkie in Starsky’s hand hissed and sputtered to life. _"You there?"_

            11:00.

            They'd tossed around a few code names, then finally decided to go without altogether. No names were needed for Starsky to know who he was talking to. His mouth pulled up into a grin even as his belly settled down. "Yeah, it's me. You're five seconds early."

            A snort. _"You want me to call you back?"_

"Naw, since you're here… How's the scavenger hunt goin'?"

            _"Slow. DiGonia seems to spend most of his time playing with his dog. I guess he's done his part already."_

"Yeah. Dobey says they got a new note – the bombs are all in public places. High profile, lots of innocents."

            A deep sigh. He could just imagine Hutch shutting his eyes, leaning his forehead against his arm for a moment's despair. _"I don't get it, Starsky. From what I've seen of the guy, he just doesn't seem like the type. I can see him chaining himself to a tree, maybe staring down a bulldozer, but murdering innocent people? It doesn't fit."_

"Yeah, well, appearances can be deceiving, partner, you know that," Starsky said gently, firmly. Part of the role when your partner was undercover was not letting him get confused about where the lines were. "You sure Ogrosky's not twistin' his arm?"

            _"Not from this end."_

11:02.

            "Hey, time's up. Better go 'fore they start looking for you."

            _"Hey."_

"Yeah?"

            Silence.

            Starsky smiled again, just barely. "Hear you loud and clear, pal."

            _"Stay out of trouble."_ The connection clicked off.

            Starsky stared at the unit. "You, too," he muttered.

            11:03.

            Only one hour and fifty-seven minutes to go.

 

            It was becoming, Ken Hutchinson had thought more than once, one of his stranger assignments.

            It was odd enough that he'd been so quickly absorbed into Ogrosky's ranks. Starsky had worked that one out, quick to talk to Joe Durniak's people while the former mobster – and Starsky family friend – was newly dead and his empire not yet crumbled. Ogrosky happened to need a few men to look after his new friend, Walter DiGonia, which had been just what Hutch and Starsky had hoped. It hadn't taken long to work his way into that assignment. 

            However, the assignment itself was the truly peculiar part: stay in the house DiGonia had been stashed in, a house they all knew the LAPD was aware of, and look after, help out, and generally babysit the bomber. Not exactly typical mob behavior. And the police weren't interfering, knowing any attempt to arrest DiGonia might just lead to the bombs going off early. DiGonia himself seemed to care little about either the trouble he was in or the houseful of mob henchmen. All that seemed to matter to him, in fact, was his cocker spaniel and his engineering journals. Not exactly the behavior of a man who had a whole city on high alert.

            And despite that one little fact, Hutch found himself liking the guy.

            "Here, Sandy. Come here, girl."

            The thin blond with the pallor of someone who worked with his mind rather than his body, was running around the small fenced yard with the dog, giving chase, playing catch. There was joy in his face at the simple pleasure, and total indifference to the possibility that someone was watching him. This was the hardened criminal he'd been sent to gather information from? The one the mob was in business with? Hutch shook his head. It seemed laughable.

            He watched until DiGonia checked the dog's collar, then snapped a leash on it, preparing to go for a walk. Then Hutch turned away from the back doorway and moved silently through the kitchen. Maybe he was an animal lover, but DiGonia was also a criminal, one with a deadly secret, and now was finally the time to figure out what it was.

            Usually Hutch had three others for company in his "assignment," suspicious and sharp-eyed dangerous men Ogrosky had picked himself, with bulges under their cheap jackets. Hutch himself was unarmed – trust of a new guy only went so far – and was usually under the scrutiny of one of Ogrosky's men. But Mort was out buying groceries, Tom had gone to steal a cigarette out by the side of the house, and Chuck was sitting in the living room reading the paper. Hutch crept invisibly behind him, toward the stairs, avoiding the few squeaky boards he'd sussed out before. And then he was upstairs, free and clear.

            And at DiGonia's workshop.

            The lock only took a few seconds to pick, and Hutch slipped inside.

            He'd caught sight of the room in passing twice, as DiGonia stepped in and out, enough to know he had a lot of work to do. The three workbenches that nearly filled the bedroom were all piled full of wires, circuit boards, and tools. A computer was crowded onto the end of one table, and beside it a spill of papers. That was where Hutch headed first.

            The diagrams would have been important in other circumstances, but he gave them only a cursory glance now. Just like they'd thought, schematics for a high-velocity, high-impact explosive, as lethal as DiGonia had claimed. What Hutch really needed, though, were locations…

            More diagrams. Lots of notes in sloppy, slanted writing. Books and articles about the logging industry. A few early versions of the note that had first alerted the LAPD of DiGonia's intentions. No maps, no lists of bomb sites. Lips tightening, Hutch turned to the computer.

            This wasn't really his strong suit, although one of the more computer-savvy detectives at the station had given him a crash course before he'd gone under. Even Starsky would have been better at hacking, in fact, except that Hutch's college degree had made him a better candidate to find out what the rogue engineer was up to. Hutch typed in a line, watching the green letters scroll across the screen, then another and a third, and frowned at what he found.

            Nothing. There wasn't even a game on the thing. If DiGonia had ever used the computer for his work, he'd erased it since.

            Hutch muttered a curse under his breath. What did that leave then? The cot tucked in one corner couldn't have hidden much, and everything else in the room was machinery. A new idea struck, and Hutch crouched to see under the workbenches, but there was nothing taped underneath any of them. So much for that. Maybe the list was on DiGonia himself… or maybe Hutch had just missed something in the pile of papers. He made a face and started flipping through it again with forced patience, checking each page now, knowing he was running out of time.

            And then, without warning, the doorknob rattled, and he was completely out of time.

            There was nowhere to hide. The workbenches provided no cover at all, and the one closet was full of boxes. There wasn't even time to cross the room and hide behind the door, perhaps stun DiGonia as he came in. Maybe he could bluff…

            The door swung open, DiGonia's mouth falling agape as he stepped in and saw Hutch.

            Hutch was already moving as he talked. "Sir, I thought I heard–"

            DiGonia shrank away and began to yell. "Help! Upstairs!"

            So much for that. Whether it was fear or suspicion, he hadn't bought it, and as the engineer continued to holler, Hutch could already hear Chuck pounding upstairs. And he wouldn't be in the mood to listen, either.

            Hutch abruptly changed direction and lunged for the window.

            A good cop always knew his options. Hutch had scouted the house thoroughly the last two days, and knew without looking the one window in the room opened above the eaves on the back of the house, allowing someone to climb out. Which was what he wasted no time in doing.

            DiGonia was still yelling behind him, and Chuck's voice had joined the din now, too. There was no time. Hutch dropped down onto the eave, taking a precious moment to find his balance, then scrambled to the edge, ready to drop to the ground and run. Starsky was just around the corner; if he could make it that far…

            A bullet whizzed past his ear. Tom. He'd forgotten about Tom.

            Hutch threw himself back, out of the line of sight from the ground, and risked a glance back into the room. Chuck had just reached the doorway, and in that moment, their eyes met.

            Chuck had never liked him. The sentiment hadn't changed.

            Hutch jumped to his feet and reached for the roof.

            It was always a bad plan, going up instead of down, but at that moment he had no choice. Tom waited on the ground, Chuck inside the house. But if Hutch could make his way across the roof and down the right side of the house before Tom realized what he was up to, his original plan could still work. Of course, there was no eave on that side, but there was a drainpipe and window ledges, and he'd just have to improvise the rest.

            With a hard pull, Hutch got himself up onto the roof. Staying low, he clambered across the shingles, moving as fast as he could while still keeping his balance, and prayed Chuck didn't hear his progress and anticipate his move.

            There. Hutch reached the edge of the roof and rose slightly to see down the side of building. Just as he thought, difficult but not impossible. Quickly and quietly he swung a leg down over the gutter.

            A flicker of motion in his peripheral vision was all he had, and it wasn't enough.

            The sound of the gunshot was nearly lost in the blow that struck his arm, throwing him off balance for just one crucial moment. Even as Hutch tried to catch himself, a wave of vertigo swept in, making the ground spin. He could barely feel it as he lost his grip on the roof.

            There was a moment of spiraling fear as he flew, a cry from somewhere, and then the ground hit him and he knew no more.

 

            1:02.

            Starsky chewed his lip. Two minutes. That was all Hutch was overdue, two minutes. Perfectly explicable, and it wouldn't have been the first time.

            So why did his stomach feel like an acid bath?

            1:03.

That did it. Yeah, maybe it was only three minutes, but in their job, that could mean the difference between life and death. Starsky jammed the walkie-talkie into his pocket, called in to dispatch, and leaped out of the car.

            He had five minutes to check out things and call in an okay before dispatch would send back-up. It should be just enough to get over to the house, make sure everything looked all right, and get back to the car. Chances were Hutch would call in before Starsky even reached the Ford. He wouldn't give his partner grief about it, knowing he was doing the best he could, but Hutch would know anyway and would be sorry.

            A faint _crack_ carried in the breeze, and Starsky stopped cold on the sidewalk for a moment. Was that a gunshot? Forget inconspicuous. He ran the rest of the way.

            There was a hedge in front of the green-shuttered house, and Starsky ducked behind it as he reached the lot, peering anxiously through the leaves. There was nothing to see on that side of the house or the front yard, and the windows were all empty. Maybe he'd imagined the worst.

            Still, he was already there, and the radio in his pocket had yet to come to life. Not to mention the hair on the back of his neck still standing straight. Starsky kept going, creeping down to the other edge of the front yard.

            The right side of the house came into view. As did the two men dragging a third toward the back corner. The third had blood in his blond hair.

            In the middle of the open street, all the air suddenly seemed to disappear.

            Starsky's fist tightened around the walkie-talkie as he strained to get a better look, but already the small cortege was rounding the corner and disappearing into the back. But it had been Hutch. Eyes closed and still. Bloody. Too far to tell if he was breathing.

            Starsky pinched his eyes shut for a half-second, took a deep breath, and then squeezed through the hedge. By the time he came out the other side, his Smith & Wesson was in his hand.

            There was no car out front, which meant one of the three goons was gone. That left DiGonia and two others, both of whom were busy getting Hutch into the house. Which meant probably no one was watching the front of the house. Or so Starsky hoped as he dashed across the front lawn and flattened himself against the white brick, still trying to breathe.

            _You'd better be all right._ Prayer was too much effort, so Starsky did what came easiest and talked to his partner instead.

            Then he took another breath and threw himself around the edge of the house, and prayed anyway.

            No one raised the alarm. It would have been just another suburban scene, if not for what Starsky had just witnessed. And the blood smear on one of the flagstones that trailed along the side of the house. Starsky crouched just long enough to dispassionately measure the amount of blood, then stood, glancing up at the roof. The gutter was dislodged just above, hanging off at an angle. Like someone had tried to climb down that way and pulled it off. As he fell? Two stories, hitting his head… Starsky swallowed, expression tightening, and went on.

            He reached the back corner of the house and risked a quick look. Other than a dog that was busy digging up something, the back yard was as empty as the side had been. They were already inside doing God-knew-what. He had to get in there. Starsky ran, hunkered down so he was under the windows, until he reached the back door.

            "No, don't!"

            The cry came through the ajar door, and Starsky stiffened even as he realized the voice wasn't Hutch's. Someone protecting Hutch? DiGonia, maybe? The dog behind him barked as if it recognized the voice. DeGonia then, probably.

            Three shots followed, making Starsky jerk and tense. Someone had just been silenced. The speaker, or…

            Starsky pulled the screen door open, just wide enough for him to slip through, and rushed in.

            Low voices came from a nearby room. Starsky headed for them without hesitation, gaze darting into the dining room as he passed it, gun raised and ready. Into the hall that extended from the kitchen, then the doorway that opened off to the right.

            Starsky steadied himself, then jumped into the clear. "Police, freeze!"

            One of the two men standing inside obeyed, immediately raising his hands. The other went for his gun. And for once, Starsky felt no remorse about pulling the trigger.

            He took in the room at a glance as he kicked the gun away from the lax hand and quickly disarmed and cuffed the other man to the nearby radiator. DiGonia lay broken, face down in a pool of blood, too much of it to still be alive. And on the sofa by the wall, sprawled as if he'd been dumped there, was Hutch.

            Still not moving. At all.

            Starsky reached him in a moment, but took several more before he finally dared touch, knowing already what his instincts were telling him. No visible rise and fall of the chest, no soft sounds of breathing. He fumbled anyway for a wrist, not willing to believe what he knew.

            And recoiled.

            "No," Starsky murmured, sinking onto the floor beside the couch. It should have been a cry, a scream of outrage, but he didn't seem to have the strength for that. Just disbelief.

            The radio chose that moment to start talking in his pocket. Starsky stared down at it, numb, for a long few seconds before pulling it limply out of his pocket.

_"…you there, Starsky?"_

            Dobey, coming after his men. Too late; all of them were too late. Starsky pressed the button, forced his deadened lips to move. "Call an ambulance." He couldn't fathom the thought of the coroner's wagon.

            _"Starsky? What's going–?"_

            He dropped the radio, ran a hand over his welling eyes, and looked dumbly up at his partner. Now what?

            Starsky's throat was closing, but he couldn't seem to care. Only the body beside him mattered, and even that he couldn't quite process. Starsky stared at it for a long time, then raised a shaking hand to curl up against the side of Hutch's neck, ruffling the blond hair in back, where it wasn't matted with blood.

            He felt something against his palm.

            Frowning slightly, bewildered, Starsky leaned forward, pressing his hand against the skin under Hutch's neck, skin that was still warm.

            And fluttered ever-so-gently with a pulse.

            Still disbelieving, Starsky got to his knees and pulled up one closed eyelid. The pupil under it contracted at the light, disappearing into the sea of blue.

           "Oh, my God." He'd been just sitting there, wasting time, wallowing in despair, while Hutch was–

           Starsky jumped up, one powerful imperative crowding out even that thought now. Hutch was still alive, and he had to stay that way.

           His airway was clear, his breathing simply too depressed to be obvious. Same with the weak heartbeat. A body fighting against shock, giving its skin the white sheen that mimicked death so well. Starsky tore his jacket off and tucked it around Hutch's upper body, then took a wild look around. The tablecloth in the dining room next door. He got it in three bounds and spread that over his partner, too. The two worn cushions he piled under Hutch's feet. Then he sat on the edge of the couch again.

           "Hutch, can ya hear me?" Starsky lifted both eyelids in turn, comparing. Equal pupils, but more dilated than they should be. Concussion, probably, and parting the blond hair gently revealed an ugly gash that was still leaking blood. Starsky grimaced and cast around for a makeshift bandage. The room was almost bare, however, not meant to be peopled for long or for comfort. He impatiently tore the edge off the tablecloth instead and folded it into a square, which he pressed against the scalp wound.

           Neither it nor his question elicited any response from Hutch, however, and that had Starsky more than a little worried. "Come on, buddy." He chafed the pallid cheeks. "Gimme some kind of sign here."

           Not even a flutter of the eyes, or a moan. "Stubborn, huh?" Starsky asked softly, and moved on his examination.

           He'd missed the other bloodstain in his focus on Hutch's head wound, but the upper right arm was also soaked. The small tear in the shirt wasn't hard to find: a bullet hole. "One wasn't enough?" he muttered to his unconscious patient. Maybe the shot had made him fall off the roof? There didn't seem to be any broken bones, which could have been from hitting grass and soft dirt, or because he was already limp as he fell, or both. Didn't explain what he was doing on the roof, of course, but Starsky had an idea.

           "They made you, and you ran for it," he said, studying the lax face. "Nice try, buddy, but next time maybe you oughta stay on the ground."

           Was that a slight frown gathering between the pale eyebrows?

           "So, he's a cop? Figures."

           The derisive voice from across the room cut through Starsky like a sharp-edged knife, and he turned smoldering eyes on the handcuffed mobster across the room. "What's your name?" he asked quietly.

           He got a jaunty smile at that. "Resnick. Tom Resnick."

           Starsky stood, inch-by-inch. "Tom Resnick, I suggest you choose very carefully what you say to me right now. You almost killed my partner today. If you end up like your friend here…" He gestured to the nearest body on the floor. "…it's only gonna be my word against yours, and you won't be talkin'."

           Resnick's smile faded, uncertainty and a little fear reflected in his eyes.

           "Who shot DiGonia?"

           "I'm not telling you nothin'," came the surly response.

           "Was he trying to stop you from shooting him?" he pointed back at Hutch.

           "Hey, we thought your cop friend was dead already."

           Starsky swallowed a fresh wash of rage. "And DiGonia got mad. Guess he didn't have the stomach for killing like you guys do. Was he even gonna set off those bombs?"

           "I'm waitin' for my lawyer."

           But Starsky had his answer. Hutch had suspected as much; DiGonia probably hadn't really had it in him to blow up anyone, but his babysitters had been there to make sure he didn't back out of his threat. He most likely hadn't even known that, until he'd balked at killing Hutch and they'd simply shot him, instead.

           Throwing one more disgusted look at Resnick, Starsky turned back to the couch. Where was their back-up, the ambulance? Hutch needed a lot more care than whatever household items were handy, and time could be critical.

           He still hadn't stirred. Even the frown Starsky had thought he'd seen was smoothed out now. Starsky swallowed a sigh. "Okay, you sleep. I'll look after things for a while." He pulled the tablecloth a little higher, felt with some satisfaction that Hutch's skin was warmer and his pulse steadier, and pressed his hand against the folded cloth on Hutch's head. His other hand he wormed under the tablecloth and jacket to squeeze his partner's limp hand, out of Resnick's sight. This was just between the two of them. And maybe wherever Hutch was, he'd sense it.

           But still there was no reaction, nor when the ambulance and Dobey arrived and Hutch was bundled onto a stretcher.

           Starsky paused on the way out, crouching next to DiGonia's body to pay silent respects. The man had been wrong, foolish, dangerous. But he'd tried to help Hutch, and that went a long way toward redeeming him in Starsky's book.

           Then he stood and went to follow his partner.

 

           He hated spending the night in the hospital waiting room, even more than spending the night in a hospital bed.

           The news, after long hours of waiting, wasn't good. Head trauma plus shock were a bad mix, and Hutch still hadn't woken up. Starsky wasn't surprised by that one. What really struck fear in his heart was that the doctors didn't know when Hutch would, and couldn't do a thing about it.

           He'd paced the waiting room all night, partnerless and terrified.

           Dobey had arrived not long into the vigil, then Huggy, then Gabe and, after him, a steady stream of well-wishers and fellow wait-ers, most from the department. News got around fast and they were coming to pay their respects, more to Starsky than to the oblivious sleeper a few doors down. Starsky nodded at each, attempted a smile, then kept pacing.

            And then he was allowed to see his partner, and Starsky forgot about all about the crowd in the waiting room, the family he hadn't yet notified, their boss, everyone but that one blond sleeper.

            The room was quiet, even with the slow beep of the heart monitor. There was a lot more equipment, but it ran quietly, bottles and tubes and needles. There was no respirator at least, thank God, and Starsky grasped at that as a good sign. Hutch's body wanted to keep going, even with its occupant currently AWOL.

            Starsky sank into the chair beside the bed, feeling tired and old.

            "We spend too much time in this place, you know that? I think I know every nurse on this floor by now. Way they talk about you, guess you do, too, huh?"

            They'd been there just a month or so before, after Hutch had been shot by fleeing kidnappers and sent flying through a glass door. He'd been wearing a vest, but the cuts and bruises had Starsky dragging him in to see the doctor as soon as they'd found the girl and wrapped up the case. Hutch had been exhausted but fine then.

            Now…

            Starsky took a deep breath, examining the face of which he already knew every line and curve. The stillness bothered him the most. The more he'd gotten to know Hutch, the more expressive he'd found the shuttered blond. Maybe he'd just been allowed to see more, Starsky wasn't sure, but the klutzy hick he'd thought was such a cold fish back when they'd first met, had turned out to have more heart than most people Starsky had ever met. And to those who knew him well, his every fleeting emotion was writ large in Hutch's face, his eyes. They'd probably reflected terror in those last few moments at the house, knowing he was shot, falling. Alone.

            "If that was the last thing I remembered, I wouldn't come out, either. But it's just you and me here." Starsky slid his hand under his partner's and curled his fingers up over it, lending it his warmth. "You listenin' to me, blintz?"

            He'd come up with the name on their assignment transporting Durniak, and somehow it had stuck. A Yiddish name for a _goy_ – his ma would approve. Hutch had rolled his eyes and made a face, but his eyes had been laughing. He'd gotten the joke, too.

            The memory took away some of the emptiness in the face in front of him, and Starsky quickly cast around for others before the spell broke. The clueless look of bafflement during each of their visits to Merl, Starsky’s jive-talking mechanic. The tender gentleness Hutch always showed Sweet Alice and any other victim of street life, and cold anger he'd directed at the predators. The frown of exasperation, followed by a small shake of the head, at Huggy's bad jokes and rhymes. Unshakeable determination to get a wounded Starsky out alive of a hostage situation. Raw grief at the loss of his lady, and at having taken it out on his partner. Face twisted in pain as he'd suffered along with Starsky when he'd been poisoned. Aching sympathy after Hutch had found him, battered and reeling, right before Marcus's cultists would have killed him.

            Starsky dragged a hand over his eyes. This wasn't helping. "Now you got me started," he muttered to the silent figure in the bed.

            The door opened behind him, and he sniffed before turning, not wanting to share the private moment. By the time his eyes met Dobey's, nobody but Hutch would have recognized what effort self-control took just then.

            "Cap'n."

            "Starsky," Dobey said quietly. He came in but didn't approach, glancing at Hutch, then quickly back to Starsky again, as if he couldn't afford sympathy just then. Business it was. Starsky straightened, slipping back into duty, except for his hand, which stayed right where it belonged, hanging on to his partner.

            "They find the list?" he asked, already figuring the answer.

            Dobey shook his head heavily. "Our men and the FBI tore the house apart. They're still working on DiGonia's computer, but it doesn't look like there's anything on that, either. We're starting to think he never wrote down the locations of the bombs, just kept them in his head."

            In which everything was lost to them now for good. "The mob guys know anything?"

            "They're not talking, but it doesn't look good, Starsky. DiGonia probably stayed alive as long as he did because his 'partners' didn't know where the bombs were, either." Dobey seemed to steel himself. "Hutch may be the only key we have to this – maybe they were chasing him because he saw something."

            Starsky's gaze went back to the sleeper. "Yeah, well, he's not exactly talkin' right now, Cap'n."

            His boss ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "We've started a quiet evacuation of non-essential personnel from hospitals, airports, train and bus stations, and some of the larger office buildings, but it's not gonna stay quiet much longer."

            "Yeah," Starsky quietly acknowledged. Hospitals – they were sitting in one of the prime targets. Hutch still wasn't safe. Couldn't the two of them just be left alone?

            "Let me know if you need anything, or if he tells you anything," Dobey said, and turned to leave.

            "Cap'n?" Starsky could hear his boss stop and face him again, even though he didn't look up. "When Bellamy poisoned me, Hutch was there the whole way, even after I got the antidote."

            "I know, Starsky." Dobey's voice was quiet, and Starsky briefly wondered how much time the older man had spent at the hospital, too, keeping them invisible company.

            He met his captain's eyes, trying to share his meager store of hope. "I'm not givin' up."

            Dobey paused, nodded, and left.

            "I'm not givin' up," Starsky repeated softly. Any time he had now he owed to his partner, anyway. He gave the hand in his a small shake. "You hear that, Hutch? I'll be right here whenever you've had…" Starsky trailed off, staring, what he was seeing just now sinking in.

            Hutch's eyes were half open.

            Starsky lurched out of his chair, fearing it was a trick of the light, or his weary brain. But no, there was a half-moon of glassy blue staring uncomprehendingly at the world – sliding right past him without stopping.

            "Hutch?" He squeezed the injured man's hand, reached up to give his cheek a gentle pat. "Hutch, you hear me?" His heart was thumping so loud, he wasn't sure he'd hear the answer.

            Hutch's gaze seemed beyond his control, though, wandering the ceiling without change of expression, jerking to a stop to focus on nothing, ignoring Starsky as if he weren't there.

            "Come on, buddy," Starsky coaxed, rubbing his jaw, brushing at the tufts of hair that stuck out from the bandage on his head. "Talk to me, Hutch."

            There. The drifting gaze finally snagged on him and seemed to sharpen a little. And then the frown of puzzlement deepened between Hutch's eyes. His mouth worked for a moment before a raw, unused whisper made it out. "…who are you?"

            Starsky stared at him, the sudden joy crashing and burning at his feet, denial and dread taking their place. But even as he opened his mouth to speak, Hutch's eyes sank shut again, his breathing growing long and deep once more. His hand jerked once, as if protesting an unfamiliar weight, then also stilled in sleep.

            No light of recognition. No relief at seeing Starsky, at knowing he was safe. No knowing at all. Oh, God, what kind of awakening had he gambled with God for?

            Starsky curled his free arm on the edge of the bed, dropped his forehead on it, and let the despair close in over him.

 

            They were chasing him.

            He fled, stumbling, feet slipping on an uneven surface. The ground was a long way down, telescoping when he glanced over the edge at it.

            And then the edge was in front of him, and he just caught himself from going over. Nowhere else left to run – now what? He looked around, trying to find some rescue.

            A gunshot came from close by. His arm burned. Balance became precarious, then tipped, and that distant ground was rushing up too fast.

            He crashed into it, agonized, broken. And as he stared up helplessly, a face appeared over the edge, cold and flat and jeering. Blue eyes, dark hair, staring down at him, saying something through twisted lips…

            He shot upright, pulse pounding in his head, air not coming fast enough.

            "Hey, easy, easy!"

            Dream and reality intertwined.

            "You're okay, Hutch, you're safe. You're safe. Just breathe."

            That voice, he knew that voice, but was it–?

           "Thataboy. Lie down again, huh? You're not ready to be up yet."

           Hands, gentle but stronger than he, eased him back down, one holding his arm, the other against his chest, coaxing instead of pushing. A clock was ticking relentlessly in the distance.

           "It was just a dream, Hutch. Everything's okay."

           He blinked, finally found a face, and reality bucked and grew distorted again.

           "Go back to sleep, buddy. Give that bruised brain o' yours some rest and it'll make more sense, I promise."

           Hands were smoothing his pillow, his hair. Promise – it reassured him somehow, even though he didn't understand what was going on. Something in him trusted the low voice, cracking with fatigue, and the emotion in the blue eyes didn't fit those in his dream.

           There was something urgent, something he had to do… but too tired to sort it out and sure at least of temporary safety, he sank back into sleep.

 

           "Officer Hutchinson, do you remember what happened to you?"

           Starsky sat silently next to the bed, listening to the FBI agent but watching his partner. Hutch frowned with his whole face, but his eyes stayed blank. "No."

           "Do you remember how you were made?"

           He looked up at the agent, clearly puzzled. "What?"

           "How they figured out you were a cop," Starsky translated quietly.

           Hutch's gaze flashed to him, one eye half-obscured by swelling and the edge of the bandage above it. It would have made him look vulnerable even if the confusion in his face hadn't. That didn't change as his eyes met Starsky, still a stranger to him, but one he was oddly tolerant of. At least Starsky knew where that unconscious trust came from, and he could remember for them both for now. He ghosted Hutch a reassuring smile, and got a hint of an uncertain one in return. Progress.

           "Officer Hutchinson?"

           It took a moment for him to respond – his name didn't mean anything to him yet, either, but Hutch finally turned back to the man. "No."

           "Do you remember this man?" The agent held out a picture of DiGonia.

           Hutch looked at it, and Starsky could see the effort it was taking to focus. So far they'd been lucky with avoiding the nausea that was common after head injuries, but Hutch's vision and strength were weakened along with his memory. Even the shake of his head spelled weariness.

           The FBI man was clearly bordering on exasperated. "Do you remember _anything_ , Officer?"

           Hutch thought about that for a moment, then faintly shuddered. "Falling."

           Starsky leaned forward, his shoulder brushing his partner's, and addressed the agent. "That's enough; he doesn't remember. Interrogating him isn't gonna help."

           "You sure about that?" the agent shot back.

           Starsky started to rise, but Dobey, silently watching until then, intervened. "That's enough, both of you. Cooper, Hutchinson can't tell you what he doesn't know."

           Cooper put his hands on his hips and gave Hutch a skeptical look. "Well, he'd better know. A lot of people are going to die if he doesn't." Giving Starsky a hard look, he turned and strode out.

           Starsky traded a look with Dobey. He hated it when the feds were right.

           "What does he mean?" Hutch asked from next to him.

           Starsky made a face. He'd hoped to delay things a little longer, but with the bombs set to go off in a little less than twenty-four hours, they really were running out of time. "You were undercover, Hutch, keepin' an eye on a guy named Walter DiGonia. We think he hid ten bombs around the city that are gonna go off tomorrow unless we figure out where they are. We were hopin' you might've found out where DiGonia hid them before you were made."

           Hutch's brow furrowed, wrinkling the bandage. "Didn't I tell you?"

           "You didn't call in before you took a dive off the roof," Starsky said gently.

           "Well… why not ask this Di…"

           "DiGonia," Starsky supplied. "We would, but he, uh, didn't make it."

           Hutch's eyes pinned him. "Did I…?"

           "No," Starsky shook his head, emphatic. "His buddies shot him after you fell. I think he was tryin' to protect you."

           "Oh." Hutch eased back against the raised end of the bed. He'd only come out of his brief coma the morning before, waking a little more every hour or two since then, and this was the first time he'd even sat up. Starsky could tell he was already spent. And hurting, by the way he screwed up his eyes and how he held his slinged arm against him.

           Time for some rest, bombs or no. Starsky nudged his shoulder, waited patiently until the slow-moving gaze returned to him. "Why don't you get a little sleep? Maybe you'll remember more when you wake up."

           "Starsky–" Dobey started.

           Starsky held up a hand to forestall the protest he knew would be coming, even as he went around to crank the bed down. "We got almost twenty-four hours left, Cap'n."

           "Starsk." Starsky's head jerked up at the private version of his name no one had mentioned to Hutch. But it wasn't recognition in the blond's eyes, just determination. "He's right. I need to figure this out."

           "You will," Starsky soothed, moving back to his side and pulling up the covers. "Sleep a couplea hours, then I'll wake you and we'll work on it some more."

           The blond head rolled against the pillow. "No, I need to… I need to go out there, see… see my life, jog my memory."

           Starsky chewed his lip. "It's gonna take more than a little sleep before you're ready for the grand tour, buddy."

           "We don't have more, right, uh, Captain?"

           Dobey stirred. "No, we don't."

           Hutch stared at Starsky, triumphant and pleading at once. "You'll keep me going."

           Starsky's chest hurt. "You remember that?"

           Hutch's eyes slipped away. "No, but…" He looked at Starsky again. "Are you saying I'm wrong?"

           "No," he said softly. "No, you're right." Hutch hadn't forgotten how to sway him, either. Starsky shook his head, took a breath, and looked up at Dobey. "Six hours of sleep first." To Hutch, he repeated firmly, "Six hours. I don't wanna carry you back here." Not that he wouldn't have if necessary.

           Hutch nodded quickly, like a kid who was promising Santa he'd be good, and closed his eyes. He didn't have to try hard to keep his word, asleep in moments, looking worn and fragile.

           Starsky grimaced at Dobey, but he was careful to be silent as he gave the blanket a last tug into place and then eased back into his chair. If they were going to take a long walk down memory lane, he'd need a little sleep first, too. Had to be ready to catch his partner when he fell, after all.

           The door shutting quietly behind Dobey was the last thing Starsky knew.

 

           The extremely red car pulled up to the curb with a caution Hutch suspected was unusual. Starsky was treating him like he was made of cracked glass, and he might have resented the coddling if the analogy wasn't so apt. Even the gentle stops and starts of the car rattled his aching head and bruised body.

           Starsky jumped out of the car, running around to the passenger side. Hutch watched him with silent curiosity, as he had a good deal of the trip, wondering about this man who was apparently his best friend. Didn't Starsky's constant cheerful conversation ever bother him? How had he gotten past the obvious difference in their levels of education and upbringing? What Hutch could dimly remember now of his life included farms and private schools and at least some time in college. Starsky, with his New York accent and creative grammar, seemed about a million miles away. Opposites attracting? Hutch secretly had begun to hope so.

           Then again, there was a wisdom that lurked in those knowing blue eyes that Hutch couldn't quite jive with the carefree attitude, and a world-weary sadness in Starsky's smiles. Not to mention the almost embarrassing gentleness and concern with which he treated his partner. He'd been there every time Hutch had woken in the hospital, anxious to reassure him, providing him at least one newly familiar face in place of the rest that were missing. And one of the few things Hutch was certain of just then was that you couldn't fake interest like that, the main reason he'd instinctively trusted the man from the start. What memories had drifted back so far had only confirmed that. Maybe they weren't such unequals, after all. Hutch hoped when his memory returned, it would show him worthy of being loved like that, and that he reciprocated it in full.

           His door swung open, and Starsky crouched on the sidewalk next to him with a smile. "You ready?"

           Hutch took a deep breath, glancing up at the building that rose behind Starsky. Neither it nor its name – Venice Place – triggered any memories. This was where he lived? But all he said was, "Sure."

           Starsky didn't even ask if he needed help, just reached in and swung Hutch's legs out of the car, then wormed an arm behind his back and helped him stand. It hurt – most everything hurt just then – but it wasn't awful, and Hutch quickly caught his breath. At a questioning glance from Starsky, he nodded.

           They made their way slowly, Starsky's arm lingering along his back. Hutch almost shook him free, then saw the stairs stretching up in front of them and reconsidered. 

           He must have hesitated, because Starsky looked at him closely. "We don't havta do this."

           Hutch lifted his chin. "Yeah, we do," he said firmly.

           Funny how Starsky always knew when to push and when to relent. "Okay," he said without pause, "but we take it slow and easy, and you tell me when you gotta rest."

           It was an order more than a request, but Hutch nodded.

           "Slow" was optimistic. They paused nearly on every step for Hutch to summon the strength for the next one, but Starsky didn't seem to be in a hurry, and his patience was catching. Even though Hutch's shirt was damp from the climb by the time they reached the upstairs landing, he was pleased with the effort and threw his partner a tired smile.

           "Piece o'cake," was Starsky succinct response, with a glowing smile in return. Hutch was reminded for a moment of a proud parent, and felt a flare of tolerant amusement. Something in him remembered similar times and this personal cheerleader of his, even if it wasn't his head. And the unfamiliar familiarity felt less and less strange.

           Starsky shifted away from Hutch long enough to wriggle his keys out of his jeans pocket – apparently he had his own copy to the apartment – and unlocked the door, then ushered them both inside.

           It was a strange experience. Like a particularly vibrant case of déjà vu, the apartment was familiar, fitting, comfortable… and yet Hutch had no idea what was where, didn't know what he'd see each time he turned his head. Plants, a guitar, a piano, warm earth colors. They fit with his sense of who he was. The gun that hung on the open closet door, the dishes piled in the sink, the few stiff, unfriendly books on the bookshelf were a little harder to harmonize. Then again, Starsky's presence alone demonstrated he didn't live a conventional life.

           Hutch limped a few steps farther into the living room, feeling Starsky's arm slip away, giving him space but staying close. The back of the sofa was right next to him, and he put a hand on it, as much for the tactile reminder as for support. There were memories here, tantalizingly close. Vague impressions of eating pizza on that sofa, watching TV, laughing. A rock through the window. A girl in pigtails?

           He spoke over his shoulder. "Do I… have any kids?"

           "Kids?" Starsky sounded surprised. "Not that I know of, unless you've been keepin’ secrets from me." He grew serious. "You've got a 'little brother,' Kiko – you're in the Big Brothers program – and he's got a sister now, thanks to you, Molly. She stayed here a few days after her dad was killed in one of our cases."

           "About eleven years old, pigtails?"

           "Twelve. But that's good. You remember anything else?" Starsky was trying not to sound hopeful.

           Hutch shook his head. "Just little pieces, like scenes from different movies all mixed up."

           Starsky took a step closer to him. "Hey, it's coming back now. That's a good sign."

           "Not fast enough." Hutch shifted restlessly, half-turning to face his partner. "I need to go see more, go someplace else."

           "Station's next on the list," Starsky offered.

           "Fine, let's go." One more glance around the room, and Hutch headed stiffly for the door, Starsky falling in beside him.

           His hand on the doorknob, Hutch stopped, cocked his head. What was that? "Salami?"

           "What?" Starsky's bafflement was almost comical.

           Hutch looked up at him. "It just came to me: salami. I think I bought some recently. That mean anything to you?"

           Starsky's eyes unexpectedly softened. "Yeah," he said. "It means I got a good partner."

           No more seemed forthcoming than that. But Starsky was even gentler as they made their slow way down the stairs than he had been on the way up.

           Hutch stored it away to think about later, and this one he wouldn't forget.

 

           Hutch dozed off on the way to the station, and when Starsky crept into a parking space in Parker's garage, he turned off the motor and just sat and watched him.

           Already the old Hutch was coming back in flashes of looks and motions and memories, and Starsky was more relieved and delighted than he could have expressed to see it. But a small part of him was sorry to see fade away the Hutch who'd woken up in the hospital. That Hutch had never been kidnapped by Forest and raped with heroin, had never had one girlfriend murdered because of him and another assaulted, had never been burned or knifed or nearly thrown off a cliff. Along with all the good times they'd shared, there were a lot of bad memories that would also be returning now. Part of what they had, of course, part of how close they'd become, was due to those bad times and having gone through them together. Maybe as long as Hutch got that part back, too, this wouldn't be so bad, and in truth, it was lonely for Starsky, not having those memories in common at that moment with the one person he'd shared them with. But still, he wouldn't have wished the memories back for Hutch. Nor could Starsky do a thing to protect him from them, short of be there, as always.

           He couldn't help wishing Hutch remembered that much, at least.

           Starsky shrugged off the wishful thinking and leaned back in his seat to wait, glancing at his watch as he did. Just over thirteen hours now until DiGonia's deadline. He'd give Hutch fifteen minutes to sleep, then wake him.

           But a few minutes later, Hutch stirred and blinked, gazing around in confusion for a moment until he realized what was going on. "Are we here?"

           "Parker Center," Starsky nodded.

           "You should've woken me up." Hutch coughed, throat probably as dry as his voice, and grimaced at the vibration.

           "Five more minutes and I woulda gotten a frog to kiss you."

           Hutch grimaced playfully. "I think you've got your fairy tales mixed up, Starsk. The princess kissed the frog and turned him into a prince. Sleeping Beauty woke up with a kiss from a guy who was already a prince."

           Starsky grinned. "Sleeping Beauty, huh?" The "Starsk" was music to his ears, but no point in making Hutch all self-conscious.

           Not that the shade of pink he was turning wasn't becoming. "Or Snow White," Hutch muttered.

           "I don't think you qualify for that one," Starsky said dryly. "So you don't remember me, but you've got the whole encyclopedia of fairy tales in your head? Anybody ever tell you you're weird?"

           "I don't remember," Hutch said without missing a beat.

           Starsky laughed. It felt good. "You ready to go in?" he nodded toward the building.

           "That's why we're here."

           He ran around to open the door and extract his partner again, lamenting to himself once more that he'd brought his car instead of Hutch's for that day's excursion. Not only might it have jogged his partner's memory, but it also rode higher than the Torino and was easier to climb in and out of, even without a rattled skull and a bullet hole in your arm. The LTD would have jogged more than Hutch's memory, though, with those miserable excuses for shocks, so Starsky had decided against it. Hutch didn't seem to care at least, and his memory of his distaste for the Torino was one Starsky wouldn’t have minded him losing permanently.

           The measured walk into the station was made even slower by the fact that every person in the building seemed to show up to welcome Hutch back and see how he was doing. Starsky vaguely recognized some of the faces from the hospital waiting room, while others were total strangers to him, let alone to Hutch. Still, it would be good for the blond to know how well-known and loved he was.

           At least, until he started getting that dazed look in his eyes from the sensory overload. Then Starsky politely but firmly started playing bodyguard, bulldozing a path for them to the elevator. He made sure they had that to themselves, too, two Records' clerks and a rookie uniform pleasantly evicted before the door closed. His instinct proved right when Hutch melted against the elevator wall, barely staying upright.

           "Whoa!" Starsky punched the button for the elevator to stop, then lunged for his partner. He'd already been hanging on to Hutch's good arm, but now he grabbed for one of the man's belt loops, too, trying to keep him on his feet. Starsky had been afraid of this; fresh out of the hospital after being shot and falling off a two-story house, the last thing Hutch should have been doing was driving all over the city, climbing stairs and walking distances and straining his memory to its limits. Starsky bent his head, trying to see into the lolling face. "Just hang on another minute and we'll get you lying down, huh?"

           "'M okay." The words were slurred, ruining their effectiveness. Hutch tilted his head back to prop it against the wall and blinked dully at Starsky. "I'm just tired… just gimme a minute."

           "I'll give you all the minutes you want; I'm not going nowhere."

           A frown puckered the bandage above Hutch's eye as he stared at Starsky.

           Starsky frowned back. "What?"

           "Nothing, I just…" A faint shake of the head. "I thought I remembered…"

           "Yeah?" Starsky prompted. Hutch was starting to hold up more of his own weight, and Starsky finally let go of the belt loop and took a half-step back. He slid his other hand down to Hutch's wrist, pleased to feel the pulse starting to settle, then back up to his elbow, just in case.

           "A… restaurant? You were…" Hutch's frown deepened as he stared at Starsky with consternation.

           Speaking of bad memories. Starsky sighed. "I was shot. Two hitmen were tryin' to take out a mobster, and I got in the way."

           "Are you okay?"

           The sincere worry made him smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. It was over a year ago, Hutch. You patched me up and got me outta there, remember?"

           "I don't know. It's not all there yet."

           "Well, you're missin' the good part then – Department gave you a commendation for that one."

           The snort he got was purely his Hutch. "You got shot and _I_ got the commendation?"

           "Hey, you deserved it." Starsky pushed another button and the elevator started to move again. "You saved all those people there that night, including me. That might not mean a lot to you now–"

           "That's not funny, Starsky!"

           He blinked, surprised by the harsh reaction. Hutch looked confused, too, as if he didn't know where that had come from. Was "me and thee" that instinctive? "Hey," Starsky said gently. "Don't get me wrong, I wasn't ready to go yet. But it wasn't the first time and it's not gonna be the last, for both of us. It's what we do, Hutch." The elevator door slid open and Starsky glanced at it, then back at his partner, still looking white and shaky. "Ready?"

           "No." But Hutch was already pushing himself upright and shuffling out.

           "We got cots downstairs in the holding cells, or Dobey's got some of those stuffed chairs in his office," Starsky continued as they walked down the hall. The word seemed to have spread about leaving Hutch alone, and most people were just smiling and saying hi from a distance. Starsky waved the few exceptions aside with a quiet word and firm stance.

           "I'm fine." Hutch's answer was tight-lipped. Probably concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Either his memory was coming back or some things were just too deeply engrained to be forgotten; how many times had they had this conversation when Hutch was dead on his feet, still going only through his and Starsky's combined willpower? Starsky silently shook his head and shoved the squadroom door open for him.

           Another round of well-wishes was unavoidable here, in their home territory. Some of the detectives who knew them better lingered to ask Starsky what the real story was, but finally that wave broke, too, and it was just the two of them standing in front of a pair of desks. Or, rather, swaying, and Starsky hastily pulled his chair out and dropped his partner into it with a flat, "Sit."

           The one disadvantage of that was he couldn't see Hutch's face anymore, and as the silence grew and the blond head didn't move, Starsky finally rounded the desks to pull Hutch's chair over to his side and sit, knees almost touching his partner's.

           But Hutch's gaze was distant, not seeing him, staring at something that was either on his desk, or in his memory. Starsky gave him a minute, not wanting to interrupt whatever was going on in that battered skull, until he started getting worried. Hutch was getting lost in whatever it was, and Starsky wasn't about to let his partner go anywhere without him just then.

           He bumped the nearest leg, waited for the blue eyes to blink, startled, then asked quietly, "What do you see, Hutch?"

           Another blink, then Hutch dragged his gaze back to Starsky. "I was in a house."

           Starsky leaned forward. "Yeah?"

           "A white house. I fell…" Hutch reached up to rub at his forehead, next to the bandage.

           Starsky's breath caught in his throat. "DiGonia's house? You remember what happened?"

           "I was running… it was the roof. There was nowhere else to go. I can't… I can't see the room…" Hutch's fingertips were turning white from pressing so hard against his head.

           If it was hurting that bad, Starsky couldn't muster any regret at interrupting. "Hey, take it easy," he said softly, prying away Hutch's hand with effort. "Don't force it, it'll come. I want you to take some more aspirin, okay?" He reached for his bottom desk drawer.

           "Starsky, I have to go back there."

           "Back where?" he asked, trying to calm without patronizing. The fact Hutch had remembered even that much impressed the heck out of Starsky already. He retrieved the bottle and spilled a couple of tablets into his hand.

           "The house. I need to see where it happened."

           It. Starsky's lips twisted wryly and he patted his partner's knee. "I'll be right back." He retrieved a cup of water from the cooler by the door and returned to his chair. It took a moment of gentle prying to unfold Hutch's hand, but then he dropped the tablets into it and nudged it in the direction of his mouth. Hutch took them without even seeming to notice either the pills or the water he washed them down with.

           "If I'm going to remember in time, I need to see the place, be there again." He hadn't skipped a beat.

           Starsky clasped his hands, giving the matter real thought now. The house wasn't high on his list of places to visit or props to restore Hutch's memory, but returning to the place he'd lost it seemed to make some reluctant sense. "Okay," Starsky finally said. "One more stop… on one condition."

           "What?" Hutch asked warily.

           "I take you home right after, and…"

           "Fine." No hesitation.

           "I wasn't done," Starsky said patiently. "I take you home right after, and you sleep on the way there. You look like someone's drivin' a nail into your head."

           Hutch grimaced tiredly. "Feels like it." His hand was back on his forehead again, fruitlessly massaging.

           Starsky nodded toward the door behind him. "Dobey's office is right there – you could rest a little first."

           "No," Hutch shook his head. "I wanna get this done. What if one of those bombs goes off early, huh? We can't afford to wait, Starsky."

           If they were going to talk about affording, there were a few things Starsky didn't think he could do without, and the flinching, hurting blond in front of him was one. But, unfortunately, he understood. It wasn't the first time duty took precedence over personal needs. And he never had been able to refuse his partner.

           He took a deep breath. Once more unto the breach – Hutch had quoted the line once from some play. "Okay, but remember, you sleep on the way and we go home right after."

           "That's two conditions."

           "Least you remember how to count," Starsky said, unrelenting.

           "Were you always this bossy?" Hutch asked, mouth barely turning up.

           "Yup." Starsky stood. Humor was a good sign and reassured him tremendously.

           "Any other of your charming qualities I should know about?"

           And those long words were another. "Yup," Starsky said cheerfully as he levered his partner up, but didn't elaborate. It would come back.

           Hutch staggered and Starsky quickly balanced him, then wrapped an arm around his waist. Assuming they both survived this in one piece, he silently amended, Starsky had faith now it would all come back.

 

           For all his grousing about it, Hutch had to admit, it was good to lie down, even folded up into the back seat of Starsky's car. It was cramped but cozy, and the rumble of the engine, the warm air inside the car, Starsky's jacket draped over him, and the plush seat that seemed to apply no pressure at all to his bruised body, were irresistible in his exhaustion. He was asleep before they even cleared the garage.

           The dream came again, different and the same, but this time he knew it for what it was.

           The green-shuttered house loomed skyscraper-like before him, menacing. Hutch stared up at it a long minute before moving closer, drawn by some force he couldn't resist. He didn't try.

           The rooms inside were bare but elongated, stretching into dark corners and passages in which the ticking of a clock echoed. The whole house was distorted, nonfunctional, frightening. But still he kept moving deeper inside.

           And then the footsteps began, first walking, then running his way, getting louder.

           He turned and fled.

           The door was gone. Only the windows offered any escape, and after a moment of hesitation, Hutch lunged for the nearest one. Ground level – no problem, right?

           Wrong. Outside, the ground was a distant patch of green, the sight plastering him against the wall of the house in terror. The running footsteps were growing louder behind him, and dark silhouettes flickered in the corners of his vision.

           "Hutch."

           The voice came from below him, perhaps from the tiny figure he could just make out now, looking up at him. Beckoning… wanting him to jump? He'd be killed. Hutch recoiled, hand fumbling for the window ledge. Better to face whatever danger awaited him inside. But when he turned, it was to come face-to-face with a man with cold, dark eyes and a gun. Pointed at him.

           Jump or be shot. He had only a moment to decide, and then Hutch was stepping back, away from the house, the gun going off loudly behind him. Burning pain and a blow against his arm sent his fall spiraling out of control. And the small figure on the ground grew larger with alarming speed.

           "Hutch!"

           He jolted awake, sure for a moment he'd hit the ground, pulse pounding in his ears and his arm so twisted, it felt like his skin was about to tear off. He groaned.

           "Shoulda woke you up sooner." The voice was scolding but not directed at him as hands carefully manhandled him a minute before finally easing his arm back down against his chest, releasing the strain on the stitches. "Better?" Starsky asked, pulling back so he was at eye-level.

           Hutch was still trying to catch his breath so just nodded. His stomach was churning, but as his body stood down from fight-or-flight mode, it was starting to settle.

           "Sorry. Bad one, huh?"

           "Bad enough," Hutch said hoarsely. He refused Starsky's offer of a hand as he swallowed and slowly pushed himself up. "How long have I been asleep?"

           "'Bout an hour," Starsky said.

           He gave the man a sharp look, but Starsky didn't seem to notice it, which was probably deliberate considering he'd been aware of Hutch's every wince until then. "How much time have we got left?" Hutch pressed. It had already been dark when they'd arrived at the station, and he hadn't had a watch since he'd woken in the hospital.

           Watch… hospital… another embryonic memory he couldn't quite place.

           Starsky had straightened for a minute to say something to someone over the hood of the car, but now bent down again to talk to him.

           "Eleven hours 'til the bombs go off."

           Hutch looked around and saw a house to the right, peeking out from behind a row of hedges. It was too dark to tell its color, but he bet it was white with green shutters. "Let's go," he turned back to Starsky, and reached for a hand out.

           The sleep had refreshed something at least; he ached all over, his head still pounded viciously, and the short walk up to the house was enervating, but Hutch was able to make it by himself, albeit with Starsky a half-step behind. His protectiveness was by turns reassuring and annoying, depending on how badly Hutch was feeling at the moment, but it also seemed to be a fact of life, so he didn't fight it. There were far more serious things to worry about.

           Like the house before him. Hutch could feel Starsky pull a little closer to him as he hesitated at the threshold, and this time was grateful. It was just a house, wood and plaster and paint, but right now it felt like he was about to step into Hell itself, the nightmare world of his dreams.

           Hutch steeled himself and took the step.

           Unlike in his dream, the whole building was brightly lit and bustling with people in uniforms and lettered jackets: LAPD, FBI, CSI. A few were too busy to notice them, but most turned to give him strange looks. Hutch ignored them, concentrating on the house and the memories it was stirring inside him.

           To the left was a living room, barren of any furniture but a couch, a coffee table, and a few chairs. A dried puddle of maroon soaked the floor by the coffee table, and slightly brighter stains dotted the couch. Blood, he recognized, probably some of it his, and Hutch suppressed a shudder and looked away.

           The hallway before him headed into the kitchen, and while murky images of sitting in that small room drinking coffee passed through his mind, it hardly seemed important. Hutch turned his attention instead to the stairs that went up to his right.

           "Nice an' slow, like at your place," Starsky murmured in his ear, and slipped an arm around him again. Hutch didn't turn to look at him, just accepted the help.

           He was still short of breath by the time they reached the top, and he leaned against the wall a long minute while Starsky disappeared into a nearby room. He returned with Dobey just behind him.

           "Hutchinson." The older man looked pleased to see him. "How're you doing?"

           "Not exactly up to runnin' marathons, Cap'n, but he's doing okay." Starsky had returned to his side and coaxed him away from the wall and toward the doorway he'd just come from. "Let's get this over with so we can all go to bed, huh?"

           Amen to that. Hutch would have closed his eyes for a moment of rest, except it might have proved too irresistible to leave them shut.

           The room they hobbled into was no more decorated than the downstairs had been, but it was a lot more full. Several tables stretched its length, covered in electrical parts, papers, a few boxes. At the end of one sat a bare spot where something had obviously been collected and carted off. Piles of papers that several agents were sorting were on the verge of taking over even that clear space.

           He'd been in this room before.

           Hutch stuttered forward a few steps, the people in the room melting away as if they weren't even there. He'd been here, looking for something. He'd flipped through those same piles of papers, stirred a finger through the junk on the table, checked out a… computer? Maybe that was what missing. He'd looked everywhere but…

           "It wasn't here," he whispered.

           "Huh?" Starsky leaned in to hear.

           Hutch cleared his throat, snapping back to the bustling room. "It wasn't here. I looked but there wasn't anything, no maps, no lists."

           "Are you sure?" That was Dobey, bringing up the rear. "Why were Ogrosky's men chasing you if you didn't find anything?"

           "DiGonia came back while I was looking." It was returning to him even as he talked, and Hutch turned to see the ghost of the man appear in the doorway, his mouth rounded in an "O" of surprise. "He called Chuck. I climbed out the window." His eyes followed the path to the darkened glass.

           "If they caught you in the act, maybe it was here but you didn't have time to find it," Starsky suggested quietly.

           "It wasn't here," Hutch said flatly, and whirled away from his reflection in the glass. This room wouldn't be of any further help.

           He'd already started down the steps, anger carrying him where strength failed, before Starsky caught up, but Hutch shook off the helping hand. What was the point of his being there if they didn't believe him?

           His leg, already shaky with fatigue, suddenly buckled and slipped. Hutch's hand wrenched free of the banister and a scream welled up inside as the scenery lurched. He was falling again.

           And then he was caught. The jerking halt hurt, a lot, but Hutch gasped in relief and clung to the arm that had wrapped around him from behind. It supported his weight while his clumsy feet found their foothold again, then re-adjusted his sling before sliding back to his good arm.

           "You okay?" Starsky asked simply.

           Hutch was embarrassed to meet his eyes, but he did, abashed at the lack of censure in them. "Yeah."

           "Good." And that was all there was to it.

           He didn't refuse the assistance after that, or chafe at Starsky's hovering.

           At the bottom of the stairs, Hutch headed resolutely out the front door, and Starsky followed silently, not commenting when Hutch turned right on the porch instead of continuing down the walkway to the car, and headed for the front corner of the house.

           The dark made his uncertain footing even more precarious, but Hutch didn't slow as he turned the corner. Starsky would be there to catch him if he fell. A clock had struck as they'd walked out the door, marking off another hour of the few they had left, and there was no more time to waste.

           He reached the spot he knew as much by instinct as memory, and stopped.

           Light spilled out through the windows on that side of the house, throwing patches of grass into green relief. Several splashes of light framed the flagstones that trailed along the side of the house, and it was one of those Hutch slowly sank to his knees to view.

           Blood. His blood. His hand wandered up unconsciously to the bandage on his head, and he looked up.

           The edge of the house was dark against the night sky, a torn gutter dangling off it like a hangnail. But in Hutch's mind's eye it was midday, the sun shining, children and dog and bird noises in the breeze. And he was running for his life on the sloped roof.

           He'd wanted to climb down at the edge. Swung his leg over the side. Then, a gunshot, a flare of pain. His arm hurt, and he lost his balance. The green grass filled his vision.

           Falling.

           Dizzy, he swayed, and Starsky grabbed him by the arm to keep him from toppling over. His partner, who had been sitting so close by then, then waiting vainly to hear from him. Hutch stared at the face when it appeared inches from his, lost in his bewilderment.

           "Hutch."

           The memories were rushing at him like an avalanche ready to bury him. There had been children and birds and dogs.

           _"Hutch."_

           Dogs.

           "Hutch!" He was shaken lightly. "Listen to me. It's over. You hear me? It's over. You're safe now, you're okay."

           He blinked. "Starsk?"

           Missed the torrent of relief. "Yeah, it's me, partner. How you doin'?"

           Hutch sank down to sit on the ground, feeling only Starsky's arm settling around his shoulder, knowing it had been there a hundred times before and remembering each one now.

           "Hutch?"

           And wondered at the calm in his own voice. "I know where the list is."

 

           "You know, this is stupid, even for you."

           The light of amusement in his partner's eyes was so very familiar, and almost eased his worry. "This coming from the man who insisted on going out for Mexican the day after he came home from the hospital from being poisoned?"

           "You would remember that," Starsky groused good-naturedly. "But, hey, that was tacos. This is–"

           "The lives of hundreds of people?" The mind was still quick, even though the words sounded thick and cumbersome.

           Starsky made a face at him. "Yeah, 'cause they might need your help finding one dog in a pound."

           "I think I've earned the right to see what I was almost killed for, don't you?"

           "Long as you don't finish the job for them."

           Hutch just gave him a look. Between the bandage that didn't hide his swollen eye, the exhausted droop of his face, and the way he was leaning on Starsky, it didn't quite come off. Starsky just shook his head.

           "Come on, blondie, let's go see a man about a dog."

           Hutch was wobbling now, upright only by sheer refusal to acknowledge he'd reached his limits, and Starsky's fistfuls of his jacket. It hadn't been enough he'd figured out the list was in DiGonia's dog's collar, he had to be there to see it for himself, and Starsky hadn't the heart to refuse, even though Hutch wouldn't have made it without him. And that had been even before his partner had pointedly reminded him of when their roles had been reversed, Hutch barely keeping him going as Starsky insisted on staying with him even as poison systematically shut down his body. Starsky was starting to wish Hutch's memories had been a little slower to return.

           Oh, who was he kidding? Even the memory of the moment Hutch had looked up and known, _really_ known him, still made Starsky weak-kneed with gratitude and joy.

           At any rate, here he was now, playing human crutch, pretending not to notice that every playful line Hutch spoke had to be mustered from deep within, and praying both their strength would hold until they could finally wake up from this bad dream.

           They were the rear guard of a swarm that included agents, detectives, uniforms, and a very determined Dobey. Starsky watched with half-attention as the parade stopped at the front counter of the pound and spoke to the white-coated attendant there. Thirty seconds later, they were all turning toward the door that led to what Starsky presumed were the kennels in the back.

           The corridor was, indeed, lined on both sides with cages full of yipping, excited dogs. Starsky didn't look at them, not wanting the distraction, or the play on his sympathies. He didn't need a dog to look after; his partner kept him busy enough already. Hutch was already tightening against him at the deluge of sound, and Starsky gave him a sympathetic squeeze. Couldn't be good for the headache threatening to leave permanent wrinkles in Hutch's forehead. Or maybe it was bringing back more memories of DiGonia's house. Although after the trance Hutch had fallen into in that side yard – briefly stopping Starsky's heart – Starsky figured they were over the worst of that. He hoped.

           "That's him." Hutch's voice was a murmur now, one Starsky would have missed if it weren't so close to his ear. He stopped, pulling Hutch up a little straighter, and watched with him as the pound attendant took out a ring of keys and unlocked a cage on their right. The cocker spaniel inside went crazy with excitement.

           Two men entered the cage, one of them Cooper, the lead agent on the case. It didn't take long for them to catch and hold the dog still, and then Cooper undid the collar and turned it, holding it up to the light.

           "Here goes nothin'," Starsky breathed.

           Cooper slid something free from the inside of the collar, unfolded it. A piece of paper. There was a moment's pause, then he smiled, nodded. "This is it," he said, his voice echoing in the cinder block hallway.

           Hutch breathed a long sigh of relief.

           That was when the shooting started.

           Cooper was the first one down. Starsky registered the gunshots at the same moment he saw the agent fall. Semi-automatics, more than one: a hit. And they were easy targets. He grabbed an armful of his partner and dove to the ground.

           The noise was deafening. Yells and gunshots bounced off the walls around them, impossible to trace. Starsky covered Hutch with his body, pulled his gun, and looked around, seeking targets.

           At the end of the hallway, through the door they entered, he found them. Five shooters, two already down. His Smith & Wesson quickly cut down a third.

           A bullet dug into the floor in front of him, sending up chips of paint and concrete. Starsky flinched, plastering himself a little tighter against Hutch, who hadn't moved since they'd hit the floor. Shot, knocked out, or just strengthless, Starsky didn't even know, and didn't have time to find out.

           But rage and fear tended to mess up your aim, so he calmed himself, focused, sighted, and fired again. Another shooter went down. And then, as others around Starsky also returned fire, the last one staggered and fell.

           Gunpowder and the ringing of his ears choked his senses, and for a moment, Starsky sagged, collecting his bearings and stilling the worst of his adrenaline shakes. And then he rolled off his partner and scrambled up onto his knees. Gently cradling Hutch's neck in one hand, Starsky turned him over.

           His partner’s eyes were closed, his breathing slow, and his pulse beat strong under Starsky's thumb. No fresh blood, although the cheek below the bandage was abraded red. Starsky slumped again. Unconscious, not shot, not dead. And not up for all this excitement, just as Starsky had tried to tell him, but did he ever listen? 'Course not. He wouldn't have been Hutch if he did.

           And, thank God, he was.

           Starsky heaved him up from the cold concrete floor, settling the limp form carefully against his thigh and chest, then shrugged out of his jacket and tucked it around the man. He should just make a present of it to Hutch, as often as his partner was using it, Starsky thought with grim humor, and clumsily smoothed down a few tufts of mussed hair.

           "Is he hit?" That was Dobey, coming up breathlessly beside him, a revolver clenched in his hand. Starsky shook his head.

           "Think he just passed out, Cap'n. He's been pushin' himself too hard all day."

           "Well, when he wakes up, tell him he did a good job."

           Starsky glanced back. "Cooper all right?"

           "He took one in the arm, and Sanderson was hit in the hip. We were lucky."

           "Ogrosky?" Starsky turned to the bodies by the door.

           "More than likely." Dobey straightened. "I'm going to call for some ambulances."

           Starsky absently slid a hand under Hutch's jaw, rubbing it lightly. "Get us one, too, huh?"

           Dobey met his eyes for a moment, then moved away.

           Confusion reigned around them, a bustle of movement, voices, dogs barking. Starsky shut it all out, making himself comfortable on the floor, taking care not to jostle Hutch, who slept on, oblivious. Starsky gave him a fond smile. " _Now_ you listen to me." But his hand stayed against the side of Hutch's neck, monitoring the steady heartbeat just the same.

           They stayed there, in that oasis of calm, until the EMTs arrived.

 

           A clock ticked in the otherwise silent room.

           Hutch woke from dreamless sleep and frowned, knowing the sound meant something to him but unsure what. The thought persisted, though, pushing back sleep, and he finally opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling.

           It wasn't his room.

           Hutch turned his head and pressure built behind his forehead as if the movement had shifted a weight inside his skull. He quickly crushed his eyes shut again. He'd seen enough to know where he was, and maybe everything else could wait until it didn't hurt so much to breathe.

           Invisible hands smoothed a cold, wet cloth over his forehead and eyes, and while the contact momentarily shocked his senses, it soon contracted angry nerves and inched back the skull-cracking pressure. Hutch slowly released his held breath.

           "Take these, too." Something prodded his hand, and he accepted first a pair of pills, then a dewy glass of water. It took some of the scratch out of his throat. Hutch lay back on the pillow and just breathed for a minute.

           "How long?"

           "Three hours at the hospital, almost… six more since you've been here."

           "I don't remember."

           "You were pretty much out of it. Remember the shootout at the pound?"

           He stirred. "No."

           "You and the floor got a little up close and personal. Remind me not to throw you around like that next time you're looking like a three-day corpse."

           His mouth twitched. "Next time, huh?"

           A puff of air. "With our track record?"

           He didn't have an answer for that.

           The bed dipped on his right, and he turned blindly in that direction.

           "Did we win?"

           The slightest pause. "Yeah, we won. The list was in the dog's collar, just like you said. Bomb squad found 'em all. Dobey's putting you up for a commendation."

           "I think it's your turn." His forehead still throbbed and he automatically reached to massage it, but his hand was gently intercepted and tucked back under the blanket.

           "Leave it alone, Hutch; give the pills time to work."

           He made a face but obeyed, knowing the truth of it. And hearing the concern. He cleared the fur from his throat. "Who was doing the shooting?"

           "Ogrosky's men. Seems our friendly neighborhood mob boss didn't want us to find the bombs. We're still tryin' to figure out if he wanted to make some demands himself, or if he wanted them to go off."

           "I guess he could always corner the market on looting and pillaging," Hutch said tiredly.

           "Really." The mattress shifted. "Why don't you get some more sleep? Pills should be kicking in soon."

           And they were, slowly starting to fog up his mind. Not just aspirin, then, he thought with chagrin.

           "It's okay, you got no place to be but here, and I'll be right outside." A hand rested on his shoulder, light but firm.

           Right outside not just if he needed something, but also to watch his back while he was out of it. It didn't completely make up for the dirty trick with the pills, but it helped. And his head was starting to get pleasantly light, his arm not even twinging when Hutch nestled further into the inviting bed. Speaking of which, "Why here?" he asked thickly.

           There was a sound of water, and the warmed compress on his forehead was replaced with a fresh cold one. "Shorter stairs," came the wry answer.

           There was something funny about that, but his mind was no longer stringing enough thoughts together to figure it out. His world boiled down to basics: comfort, retreating ache, safety, fatigue, the presence beside him.

           The ticking faded, and he slept.

 

 


End file.
